Tangled Up in Princes (Royal Romances Book 1), page 6
He looked amazing, just like he'd looked in all the pictures she'd been staring at for days now. But he wasn't a picture. He was real, real and here. To prove it, she reached out a hand and placed it on his chest.
"I wasn't sure you'd come."
He put a hand over hers. "
I wasn't sure you'd let me in when I did. Lizzy said you were rather annoyed with me."
"Was I?"
He ran a finger over her cheek, down her neck, and across her shoulder.
"So I was informed."
"I can't remember why just now."
He stepped inside, sliding the secret panel closed behind him. He kept his hand on her, but he looked nervous.
"This, coming to see you, is the first thing I've done in a long time that was only for myself."
She tried to keep her tone light.
"Should I be honored?"
"The honor is entirely mine, I assure you."
He slid his hands down her arms to rest on her waist, then around to her back. He pulled her against him.
"You are more beautiful than I remembered."
His lips hadn't even touched her and her pulse was already throbbing in her temples. Oh, but she wanted this man! If having him made her a wanton slut, then so be it. He placed a feather light kiss on her temple.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'd never have stayed away from you if it hadn't been necessary."
"You're here now."
His lips barely brushed hers.
"And there's nowhere else I'd rather be."
He covered her mouth in a crushing kiss that gave testimony to his words. They were both exactly where they wanted to be. Carrie didn't know how one conducted a proper fling. Were there rules of engagement? She had no idea, and so gave in entirely to the sensations coursing through her. She wrapped her arms around Edward and tangled her fingers in his hair. When his kiss slid down her neck and his tongue grazed her collarbone, she moaned. She moaned, and she didn't care that she'd moaned. If his kiss was any indication, she intended to do still more moaning before this night was over.
He was breathing hard as his hand grazed her breast. Just that slight touch, coming as it did with fabric separating skin from skin, was enough to have her nearly wrapping her legs around him from anticipation. She should take this moment slowly, savor each touch, but she'd always been of the opinion that good things were even better when you binged on them. It was true of chocolate, ice cream, good books, and apparently, English princes.
She didn't want to go slow. She wanted to demand and submit, all at the same time. So when he started gathering up her long, flowing skirt, she felt like telling him just to rip the damn thing off her. He was going slowly, so slowly, whether out of some gentlemanly code or to heighten her anticipation. Either way, she was quite certain she would explode if she didn't feel his skin on hers soon. She helped him with the skirt and guided his hand beneath the hem to rest on her bare thigh.
"Bloody hell, Carrie! I have a lovely, private dinner planned on the castle roof, but just now, I can't think of anything but devouring you!" He panted, "Will you think me a complete brute if I suggest we postpone dinner?"
"I was afraid you'd think I was a slut if I suggested it."
"You can be whatever you want to be."
He lifted her to sit her on the edge of the bed. Standing in front of her, he brushed the short sweater from her shoulders with a single swipe of his hands.
"Lovely, you are so lovely."
She unbuttoned his shirt, her eyes never leaving his.
"I never do this. I want you to know that."
"I do realize that and I'm very pleased you've chosen this particular moment to amend your modus operandi."
He cupped her breasts in both hands. Her dress buttoned up the front, and he set to unbuttoning it.
"Never wear so vast a gown again," he said.
When he had the dress off her, he moved his hands around to unfasten her bra, a ridiculous lacy thing that had no value as a support garment, but apparently did its job of enticing ornamentation very well. He tossed the scrap of lace across the room, knelt in front of her, and took her breasts in his mouth, one after the other.
She was gasping for air. His lips, his tongue, even the merest hint of his teeth on her skin -- could a woman orgasm from second base? If so, she'd know it soon enough. Then he kissed down her belly and lower still. He lay her back on the bed and kissed her thighs. He pushed her knees apart to trail his tongue up her inner thigh. He pulled her hips to the edge of the bed.
"Edward!" she cried.
"Don't start screaming my name yet, love. There will be plenty of time for that."
He ran his hands up her thighs. He stroked her, first with feather-light touches, then with more pressure. He moved his thumb, opening her to him. He kissed and licked his way up her thigh while his thumb roamed in lazy circles.
It was all she could do to keep from screaming. She was just short of begging him to stop, even though the last thing in the world she wanted was for him to stop. The pleasure was nearly unbearable. The most intense orgasm she'd ever had was just out of reach and she didn't know whether to hold it back or rock and buck her hips to meet it. He changed his rhythm, and the point became utterly moot. She yowled like a cat and screamed his name. She might have blacked out there for a minute. If the entire castle had fallen down around her ears, she couldn't have spared even the slightest attention for it. When the last tremor subsided, Edward came to lie beside her on the bed. Self-consciously, and rather foolishly at this juncture, she covered herself with her skirt.
"My mother would not be proud of me just now," she said.
"I assure you, I have no intention of telling her."
She laughed at herself. Only she would bring up her mother after a man had just, um, serviced her so thoroughly.
"Do they teach you boys that at Eton?"
"Yes -- a rigorous academic program, rugby, polo, the cricket, and cunnilingus. Do they teach you American girls to scream like that?"
"Did I really scream? I tried not to."
"Only a little. I've no idea what the neighbors thought, but I found it most gratifying."
He skimmed his fingertips up and down her arms. It occurred to her then that he must be nearly crazed with lust. She hadn't even managed to unfasten his pants. She thought she'd need that meal and perhaps a nap to recover from her orgasm, but looking at the bulge in his pants, she found that her desire for Edward had a voracious appetite all its own. He followed her gaze to his crotch, and he quirked an eyebrow. She unbuckled his belt.
"But they call it a stiff upper lip, right?" "And this isn't what they're referring to."
"No," he said, his usual control sounding satisfyingly shaky.
She undid the button. Slowly. Then she dragged down the zipper. One expected a prince to be well endowed, but Edward surpassed even her vivid imaginings. She rubbed and stroked, then slid her fingertips up the shaft. Edward sucked in air through his teeth. So maybe the acrylic nails had been worth the trouble after all. She pushed his pants and boxers to the floor. Wearing undergarments, he was clearly classier than she was.
He pulled her atop him. They were naked, stem to stern, and pressed full length against each other.
"Nothing has ever felt more right than this," he said.
"I think I can make it feel more right still."
She sat up and straddled him. He held a condom in his hand. She took it from him, opened it, and put it on him. She rose to her knees, then took him inside her.
He groaned beneath her. She rocked, taking him deeper inside each time. His hips thrust, a promise that any orgasm he delivered would be just as earth-shattering as the first. She took his hands and raised them over his head. He thrust harder. He took her breast in his mouth and teased the nipple with his tongue, that amazing tongue. She sat up, not wanting to climax again without him. Since she desperately wanted another orgasm, she changed her movements to take even more of him. He was deep inside her, and she felt it building so close, too close.
"Carrie, I can't. Not much more."
She knew the feeling.
"Yes, Edward. Don't stop."
They climaxed together like a storm of crashing waves on a steamy beach. If Edward screamed, she didn't hear it, but that was probably because of her own cries. She kept moving over him, riding the shuddering waves to the very end. Spent, she slumped atop him. They lay quietly until their heartbeats returned to normal levels and their breathing didn't sound like they'd just completed a wind sprint.
"I really did have a nice seduction planned," he said, "Flowers, champagne, the works."
She rolled off him.
"Good. I'm eager to be seduced."
His look of surprise turned into that delectable grin.
"I do like the way you American women think."
"Let's see if you Brits can keep up," she said over her shoulder as she took her dress into the adjoining bathroom.
The blasé attitude was a nice touch, she thought. It was also entirely fake. There was nothing whatsoever that was nonchalant about her feelings for Edward. At first, she'd attributed her infatuation to the fairy tale effect--he was an actual prince. The drop-dead gorgeous thing, that hadn't hurt either. But the more time she spent with him, the more she realized there was depth to her feelings. As she dressed -- with underwear this time -- she reminded herself about the ocean, both literal and figurative, that separated them.
She'd had a fling. That had been all she wanted. Mission accomplished. Mission thoroughly enjoyed. To expect anything more from Edward would be setting herself up for heartache. Oh well, she decided as she slipped into her sweater, she'd survived heartache before.
Chapter Five
Edward held her hand as he led her up the secret passage to the rooftop. He was probably being overly cautious, but he didn't want the paparazzi ruining his time with Carrie.
"It's beautiful," she gasped when they finally reached the top.
It was exquisite. Somebody on his staff was going to be getting a very large bonus. The table, positioned in a puddle of moonlight, was laid with cut-crystal glasses that sparkled in the starlight. Stargazer lilies, bright and fragrant, reached toward the heavens.
"The bread is still warm," she said, taking a bite. "And delicious. How did you do all this?"
"I know people skilled at preparing meals fit for a queen."
She swallowed with a gulp.
"Um, thank you," she said looking around the roof top.
"They aren't here. I'll be sure to pass along your compliments, but I promise we are alone up here."
She relaxed at that, and only then did he realize just how anxious she'd appeared.
"Please don't be nervous around me.”--he took her hand in his--"I never want you to be nervous around me."
"It's a little intimidating," she confessed.
"The title is intimidating, and the trappings can be intimidating, but I'm not.
She squeezed his hand.
"No, you're not. So tell me what it's like to be a prince."
He poured them each a glass of champagne.
"I don't think I know how to answer that. I've never been anything else."
"I read once that some prince or other used to employ a person whose sole job was to put toothpaste on his toothbrush. Was that true?"
"It might have been, but I assure you, I perform all my ablutions without aid from anyone."
"What's so funny?" she asked when he couldn't suppress a laugh.
"I've been asked many things about being a member of the royal family, but no one has ever asked me if I apply my own toothpaste."
"That's me-- always getting to the heart of things. Do you always have to worry about the paparazzi?"
The paparazzi. He knew they'd have to get around to that. He took several sips of champagne while he weighed his words.
"You don't have to answer. I'm sorry if I'm being nosey."
"It isn't that. It's just that I don't want to tell you the truth, but I also don't want to lie to you."
"If you wanted to lie to me, what would you say?"
"I'd say that no, I don't worry about the paparazzi constantly. They hardly trouble me at all."
"Oh."
He refilled her glass.
"I think that I worry about them perhaps more than is warranted. Jamie doesn't worry about them at all, and Lizzy--Lizzy actively courts them."
"But you care more."
"About the family, no, but about the family's image--yes, I believe it's something like that. Jamie is heir to the throne, and there's a lot of responsibility there. For me, less is required of me," he shrugged, "so I took over the role of managing the family's public image."
"From what little I've seen, that can't be an easy job."
"As much as I adore having you think that I'm single-handedly taking on the villainous press and protecting my family with my life, I have to tell you that there's an entire staff of public image consultants, all of whom work more diligently at this than I do."
"I wish I'd have known that sooner," she said, "because what happened earlier-- that was totally a pity fuck."
Royals did not snort champagne out their noses. They certainly did not. But it was a very near thing. Edward blotted with his napkin just in case.
"I have had perhaps three conversations with you, and you've made me laugh more than any single person ever has."
"Even Jamie? He seems pretty funny."
"Please don't tell him so. He needs no further encouragement."
"It's kind of hard to think of him being king someday."
"Jamie will be the greatest monarch Great Britain has ever known."
At her look of surprise, he went on.
"Indeed, he may appear to be irresponsible--and I'm not suggesting he's ready for the position yet--but no one cares about Britain -- its history, its people, its culture -- the way Jamie does. At university, our father --"
"That would be the king."
"You're a bit stuck on that, aren't you, love? Yes, our father, the king, wanted Jamie to study international business and geopolitics, but Jamie chose history instead. Father nearly had apoplexy when Jamie postponed his entry into His Majesty's Naval Forces to assist on an archeological dig in the north of England."
"I'm with Jamie. International business?" She mimed a yawn.
"So that's me. Anything more you want to know you can find out on the Internet. Now tell me about Carrie MacCallum."
"I am not nearly as interesting as you, I promise."
"You're from the American South, that's all I know. Apart from the rather obvious fact that you have amazing legs."
"If you must know. I am from Kentucky."
"The one with the derby?"
"Yes, except we pronounce it correctly. It's DER-by."
"I believe one of my ancestors invented thoroughbred racing, but I'll indulge you. Derby then. Now, what else?"
"I own a knitting shop."
"Knitting, the bit with yarn and pointy sticks?"
"Monarchy, that's the bit with trumpets blaring and fancy headgear?"
He raised his glass in mock salute, "Touché."
"If you want to boil my livelihood, nay my passion, down to it's most basic components, then, yes, it's yarn and pointy sticks."
"I always wanted a girlfriend who could knit me a jumper. Can you knit me a jumper?"
"Hmmm."
"I don't warrant a jumper?"
"You're accustomed to designer fashions. I don't think a hand knit sweater would be up to your standards."
"I see, you aren't up to the job."
"I beg your pardon? I'll have you know I knit this sweater myself."
He reached across the table to rub the fabric between his fingers. And, yes, he copped a feel while he was at it.
"Very nice."
"Anyway, I own a knitting shop in Kentucky. That's about all there is to know. I work a lot."
"No ex-husband?"
"Nope."
"But there is an ex-fiancée. Clearly, he is an absolute imbecile. What is his name?"
"His name? Kevin."
"If I'm going to have the SIS dispose of him, I need a surname."
"Don't bother. He's not worth killing. He's a nice enough guy, just not for me."
"Why is that?"
She blushed again before answering.
"There was no sizzle."
"Ah, yes,” Edward said.
He reached across the table to stroke his thumb over her cheek.
He continued, "Lack of sizzle, that isn't a problem you and I have."
"Not at all."
"Speaking of sizzle, this rooftop is certainly quaint, but I could do with a bit more privacy right now."
He stood and pulled her to her feet. She ran her hands up his chest. She tiptoed to kiss him, and his world shrank to nothing beyond the feel of her.
"I like the way you think."
"Come along."
He couldn't get her back to her room fast enough. Someone called to him as he opened the rooftop door.
"Oi, Edward! Who's your girlfriend?"
He turned toward the speaker. A mistake--he knew better. The camera flash nearly blinded him. He ducked his head and put a hand over his eyes.
"Inside, hurry," he said to Carrie, "Go down the same way we came up."
Carrie paused. She must have been having trouble seeing too.
"Okay. I found it."
She pulled him along into the secret passage. They hadn't made it far when they heard footsteps trailing behind.
"Bloody hell, they're following."
He urged Carrie to move faster. They ran, down flights of stairs, past corridors, and through spots so narrow he had to turn sideways to pass through.
"Which way?" she said, tension in her voice.
"This way."
He could see again, though barely. He pulled her down what he hoped was the passage to her room. Their pursuers followed as well, but they were falling behind.
He dragged her down another corridor.
"Which room? I don't remember which room is mine."
